


Exile

by orphan_account



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Exile, F/F, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28563906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I can see you standing honeyWith his arms around your bodyLaughing but the joke's not funny at all...Second, third, and hundred chancesBalancing on breaking branchesThose eyes add insult to injury...I think I've seen this film beforeAnd I didn't like the endingI'm not your problem anymoreSo, who am I offending, now?
Relationships: Chloe Beale & Beca Mitchell, Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell
Kudos: 32





	Exile

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t like the ending.

Vanilla, toffee, and a hint of smoke linger on her breath as she presses the glass of down on the rustic hotel bar. Beca Mitchell has always been a fan of scotch. Able to appreciate it’s leveled complexity as compared to a standard glass of American rye. Dark blue eyes stare at the amber colored nectar sitting neat with but a few drops of distilled water to highlight the nuances of flavor. It’s not that she was fancy. She’s just drank alone enough in random bars and had enough conversations with random strangers that she learned to pick up on these things and learned to enjoy them.

One palm cradles the glass—the way you might protect a candle in a blustery night—while the other cradles her face, elbow propping her up against the bar’s top.

It’s just she and the bartender at this time of the very early morning. And she’s not sure whether it’s compassion, empathy, or pity he is showing her in this moment, because it’s almost 2:30 in the morning and way past last call. He walks over to her, no words exchanged, and simply lifts the uncapped bottle, eyebrows raising kindly in question if she would like more.

She forces a gentle smile, framed under raw, sad eyes, head nod perceptible enough that he nods back and tips the contents of the bottle to pour her another 2 inches before walking away to the other side of the bar and beginning to clean.

And left alone once again in her solitude, she sips the scotch that bites, stings, and claws its way down her throat as she swallows. Somehow despite the pain of the process, managing to still leave her with those beautiful, fragrant notes at the finish. A stray tear breaks free from her eye, but her face doesn’t contort in agony. Doesn’t twist up in remorse of anger and longing and loss.

The tear simply falls, whisked away by her knuckle, leaving no remnant it had ever been there to begin with.

“There you are! We were all worried and you bolted without telling anyone—“

The familiar voice causes her to croon her head towards it, watching as the tall, younger woman plops onto the bar stool next to her.

“When did you get back from the club?”

“Just now—hitched a ride with Chloe—I think she went up to your room—”

Emily purses her lips. Eyes studying the woman next to her. Waiting for some sort of response but realizing Beca was not going to give her one without pushing. Turning around to face away from the bar and out towards the open hallway that led into it as she rests her elbows a top the bar’s surface. Glancing down to see the glass full of liquor in Beca’s clutch.

“ _Dear God_ —you old folks and your kerosene in a glass—why would anyone ever drink that stuff.”

“Legacy, adults drink this when—“ Beca can’t help the pang of remorse that echoes through her chest. The ten years she’s wasted not telling Chloe how she feels...She cocks her head away momentarily, jaw tightening as she grinds her teeth to fight off the wave of emotion flooding through her.

“We drink this when we got demons to kill.”

Emily’s eyes fall on the mirror behind the bar, nodding her head as though contemplating something as her finger tips tap against the top of the bar.

“You know when I first joined the Bellas, I thought you and Chlo were dating?”

Beca’s eyes reflexively clench close. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about this. But she also has no energy to argue, so she simply puts the glass to her lips and takes a much larger mouthful.

“ _Seriously_ —you were always spending time in each other’s rooms—and waking up in each other’s beds—“

Emily raises her eyebrows, and Beca can’t help the reaction that escapes her—a mix of anger, pain, and total sadness bubbling over and becoming too much for her to control.

“Dude, no offense, but please—just—fucking, stop.”

Beca closes her eyes. She tries to exhale but it escapes her in a stuttered whimper as the swell of emotion overwhelms her. Her jaw begins to quiver. Vision suddenly clouded like cold clinging to a windshield on an early winter morning. And normally, she’d be embarrassed. Clear her throat and run her hand through her hair or run to the bathroom and withdraw, and never want to show her face again—but not tonight. Because tonight she’s drunk. And she’s broken. And hollow and unabashedly defeated and the last thing she wants to do is have to go up to her hotel bedroom she is sharing with Chloe and have to see her tangled up in the embrace of the guy who had been cradling Chloe at the club. And she doesn’t want to go to brunch with the Bellas and feel that familiar hollow in her stomach sink further into the hopeless abyss when him and Chloe stumble down the stairs to join them.

Because tonight, as the pulse of the club rumbled through her chest—as the warmth of alcohol dilated her veins—Beca Mitchell’s wonderful, illustrious epiphany that she had fallen in love with her best friend—that she had _always been_ in love with her—spurred her forward as she side stepped bodies and winded her small figure through the tangled web of movement on the dance floor.

Her eyes never left sight of her—Chloe Beale smiling and bobbing her head in a staccato beat of forced laughter the way Beca knew she always did when she was trying to be polite but something wasn’t really funny. The smile on Chloe’s face as the man wrapped his arms around her—hands settling on her lower back—pulling her in close to his body—

The way Chloe’s brilliant blue eyes sparkled and squinted and shined as this complete stranger physically touched and cradled and rocked Chloe with a tenderness that Beca had only ever dreamed of—but simply never had the gusto to do herself.

It’s what stopped her in her tracks some ten feet away. Staring at the scene with a mixture of happiness for Chloe and brokenness for what interrupting this would ruin. Humily at the site of Chloe happy in the arms of someone who wasn’t her.

And she knew it was selfish. Knew she was being a petty bitch. Knew she should just swallow everything and walk over and smile at Chloe and let her know she would crash in Amy's room or one of the other Bellas'. Let Chloe know that she supported her totally and fully and without restriction. But she couldn’t. She dropped her dark blue eyes to the floor in front of her. Missing the moment Chloe recognized her those 10 feet away. Missing the excitement as it drained from Chloe’s eyes as they twisted into a look of question and concern the longer they watched Beca standing there staring at the floor. Missing the way Chloe’s eyes tightened in recognition of that look of pain and hurt and subtle annoyance—as one that used to grace her own view of the world whenever Beca inevitably chose to leave her side for Jesse’s. Missing the way Chloe’s eyes followed her as she turned around and away from her before disappearing into the crowded dance floor.

**

Beca takes another sip of the glass. Pushing it towards Emily in surrender. The realization that as much as she wanted to hold onto the pleasant notes of toffee, vanilla, and smoke, the painful scorch of to get to that point just didn’t seem worth it anymore. Knowing how awful it is to hold hold Chloe to an impossible standard that Chloe had never once forced her to uphold. Because Chloe Beale was too good for her. And Chloe Beale deserved someone who would leave her with the warmth and delicious notes of scotch without its burn.

“I think—I’m done.”

A nervous smile pulls at Emily’s lips. Her eyes progressively widening in anticipation of who she sees in the distance as she pushes away from the bar, patting Beca on the back as the small brunette still sits facing the bar.

Beca unable to see that Chloe jumps off the last two set of stare and upon seeing the two familiar faces at the bar, squints her eyes determinedly, and barrels towards them.

“Nah, Beca—I think—you’re just getting started.”


End file.
